


“See first, think later, then test. But always see first. Otherwise you will only see what you were expecting. Most scientists forget that.”

by notjustmom



Series: Towel Day 2018 [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Douglas Adams, First Meeting, Gen, M/M, Sherlock backstory, Towel Day 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 04:58:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: What John saw...





	1. Chapter 1

He had always considered himself a scientist first. Always, ever since he was three, maybe even before then. He was always looking. Always seeking out those things that made most people turn away either from disinterest, boredom, or from what he would later call the 'ick' factor. It took very little time for him to understand that a great deal of life had a high 'ick' factor and most people, even the smart ones, like his parents, chose to turn from most everything that might be a bit uncomfortable or simply too much. 

He always wanted to examine those things that made most people squeamish, he wanted to know everything about life, what made people tick, what made them happy, angry or indifferent, and especially what made it possible for two people to get past all of the 'ick' of life, and decide to love one another. He looked to his parents, each so different from the other, and yet, he somehow knew they loved each other. He spent years studying them. His mum, he knew later on, was brilliant; a mathematician who could have probably solved all of those impossible maths problems, but as a child, he saw her work on perfecting her biscuit recipe with such alarming passion, even he had to look away. And holidays. Holidays were sparkling, especially Christmas. She would have his father start bringing out the boxes of decorations the last week of November, and he would peer around the corner of the doorway that led to the dining room as she began to build her village. Every year, his father would present her with a new piece, a new tree or lamp post, or building, and she would sigh happily, then spend hours deciding where the new addition would go without disturbing the balance. Occasionally she would look up and meet his eyes and smile at him. When he became old enough, he was invited in to observe, but not to touch, never to touch, and he watched with fascination as she built the village anew. She had a map, she knew where every bit belonged, each element was necessary, essential. 

Later, as he grew to understand what she had given up to raise him and his brother, he would wonder if he was as necessary and essential to her as the tiny village seemed to be. He doubted it. He would spend hours wondering how the world would be now, if his mum was allowed to be what she should have been, instead of raising children. He would never ask. His father seemed content enough, but Sherlock wondered what gifts he had that had drawn the brilliant mind to him. Eventually, he would learn it was his father's capacity for love which short-circuited his mum's direction in life. She never seemed to regret anything, there was never a trace of resentment in her features, if he had to make some cosmic pronouncement on his parents' relationship, going by what he could see, by what his eyes told him, he would have to say it was a successful relationship.

And yet, he came to the conclusion early in his life that he was not destined for such a meeting of the minds. He wasn't lovable, he was all odd angles and curls. He spoke his mind too easily, without fear, as he would speak only when he had studied a thing from every angle, and knew from at least a scientific perspective that he was in the right. Tact was only a four letter word as far as he was concerned. At first, he was surprised when people reacted badly to what he considered 'truth', he didn't understand why people saw him as one of those things to turn away from until the day his father took him aside.

"William. There are times when people don't want to hear the truth."

"Why?"

"Why? Well, not everyone sees things as you do, they attach feeling, sentiment to things, and if someone looks too closely and sees only a fact, and that fact is not what they want to hear, it hurts them. It is complicated."

"It isn't complicated. The dress is asymmetrical, the colour doesn't suit her skin tone and well, it is just plain ugly. And that's a fact."

He remembered that his father had tried to stifle a smile, but he went on. "Be that as it may, you still hurt her feelings. So, the polite thing to do is to apologise."

"Does that mean what I think is wrong just because it happens to hurt someone?"

"No. Of course not. One day, you will learn - you will meet someone who makes you want to think before you speak. You will see everything they are, their flaws, their strengths, their joys, their pain, and you will suddenly understand. I believe it will happen for you. I know it will. Just don't give up, son. Now, go and apologise to your cousin, and go play, hmm?"

Sherlock had to wait until a few weeks after his thirty-sixth birthday before he understood what his father had meant so long ago. When he saw the smaller man enter the lab behind Mike Stamford, he saw everything, and looked away again. In one glimpse he saw the limp that was all in his head, the actual injury that ended two careers, the wariness in his eyes, the look he had seen in far too many eyes of children who had been abused, abandoned by those who should have loved them. He saw the beginnings of the alcoholism that had taken his father and sibling, brother, sister? Unknown, not enough data as yet... he cleared his throat and said none of that, facts, yes, but truths that would only injure the man who stood there, waiting patiently as he worked on something, what it was precisely, he could no longer tell.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What John saw...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Ariane Devere's brilliant transcript: https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Dr. John H. Watson (no one who knew him actually knew what the 'H' stood for), leaned into his walking stick a bit more and blinked at the raven haired, slender(too slender) man, before he caught himself staring at the long eyelashes, longer than - they were ridiculous, he traced the sharp edges until his eyes fell on the plushest lips he had ever seen, and he knew lips, then he realised those lips had moved and had asked him a question, but damned if he could recall what the question was.

"Sorry?"

The lips sighed, pursed slightly and tried again. "Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" And then he looked up from the phone, a slight smirk danced lightly, briefly causing the silver eyes to brighten, then darken again. How did he - right - haircut, the straight posture, tan lines, the walking stick -

"Afghanistan," he managed to get out. "How -"

Long fingers closed the phone and handed it back to him, then accepted a mug of coffee from the woman who obviously had a bit of a crush on the dark haired - what was he? Some kind of scientist, should be a musician with those fingers -

"How do you feel about the violin?" 

He's speaking to me again. Why? "Sorry - what?"

The lips sighed again, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." The eyes flashed, and he thought he glimpsed a trace of humour in them. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." 

Whoa... flat whaaat - flat - Mike? What the -

"Who said anything about flatmates?" Why am I annoyed? Is he serious - wh - damn....

The smile was definitely there this time and the voice changed, grew deeper, the man knew his voice could charm when he wanted it to, and he was pouring it on right now - it was a trick, of course it was, but it doesn't matter, I would follow that voice - "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap - " anywhere. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it..."

He watched him shrug into the long coat and was mesmerised once again by the long, elegant - yes, elegant fingers as he tied on a bright blue, what colour - not quite ultramarine - cobalt? scarf. I will see those fingers in my dreams tonight - pull yourself together Watson. He knows - he met the silver eyes again and realised he saw everything, but he had to ask, he had to push, he had know. "So, that's it, then, we've just met and now we're going to look at a flat together - we don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know you're name." There. Something changed in those eyes, surprised, no, not really surprised, pleased - yes, he was pleased -

The bright eyes rolled and he watched him take a full breath, and suddenly the words fell fast and mercilessly, but not unkindly, somewhat regretfully: "I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid..." He knows he's gone too far there, but he couldn't help himself - he's used to seeing, knowing everything, and not caring what the consequences are, and yet - "The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street. Afternoon." A wink and that cheeky half smile, and the apparition vanished from view through the door - and John Hamish Watson knew he had just seen his future.

Mike grinned and nodded. "Yup. He's always like that."

Bloody hell.


End file.
